Sunday, September 22, 2013

Inspiration: The Whispering Ghosts of the Mind

When do the ghosts of ideas appear for you?  Every single morning I live with the protagonist in my book. It always begins as the steam from the shower billows up around me, as if permeating my skin and sending the story straight into my soul. 

That is how her story began almost three years ago, she made her way forcibly into my life. Since then I have been stumbling around intellectually trying to grasp the skills necessary to convey what she tells me in a way that people will want to hear.

 And she always begins her ranting through some connection with water. There is something about when I am around water that compels her to speak to me. Perhaps that is why I took the kids to the pool so many times this summer. I could hardly ever write there, mind you. A few times I would allow my Macbook to accompany me and I would tap away through the happy laughter and shouting of the kids. 

 Most times I would sit watching them with my mind mostly somewhere beyond where they were in a world that was playing out as if in a scene from a movie. I would let that world settle into my bones. It felt right there, almost like an adrenaline rush. Sometimes, I'll admit, I enjoy that world a bit better. 

So I think that is how my life as a writer began. I was looking for something more when I wasn't finding the color and depth that I was craving in certain aspects my life, so this was a way to do it without breaking any social norms. 

This was the way I could be the stay at home mom my husband and I decided that we wanted for our children and I could let the stories play out within my head. It's not easy, sometimes the voices scream imperceptibly at me, unable to accept that I choose my children and husband first and foremost over them. 

They are incredibly pushy. Sometimes they overcome me, and leave me in something like a cold sweat as they come in waves, there is no chance of containing them all. I have to believe, though, that the ones I successfully grasp are the ideas that are meant to remain. Even after they make me believe I am somewhat neurotic, I believe that there is a little bit of madness to any creative endeavor. 

Often I lose the purpose of what the visions and voices are trying to tell me. Somewhere between the shower and the driveline at school, I lose bits and fragments. The atmosphere of the idea, or how one bit made the hair on my arms raise, so I knew it was right. My ideas are like bubbles blown out in wonder by a child, I'm running around trying to catch the one resting precariously on a single blade of grass before it pops. 

No matter the successes and defeats, something inside me tells me to continue on. Though this may be the scenic route, I will arrive soundly and solidly at my destination. As I know writing is the journey. It is the discovery that what people say cannot be done, can in fact be accomplished and can be done with grace and stalwartness. 

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